


Under the Mistletoe

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 03:45:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12762459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: Christmas brings a gift that Vincent doesn’t want or need, nor can he ill afford to accept, but he takes it anyway





	Under the Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ItsADrizzit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit/gifts).



It started off with sprigs of mistletoe. 

One morning, they’d all rocked up, finding areas wreathed with mistletoe, placed above doorways to strategic parts of the training centre. Not only in the doorways as tradition demanded, but in more public areas, and in places that you’ve never have thought about. Everyone looked at each other with puzzled frowns, which only deepened when Pochettino made it clear it had been his idea.

“No, it’s not for kissing,” he explained, doing that half shrug he’d do when he’d run out of words when his English failed him. “Not unless you want to. It’s Christmas, _everybody_ wants to,” he laughed, but sobering up quickly as he continued, “but no. I am serious. Something more ehhh...”

Jesús there by his shoulder, shifting to the balls of his feet, as Pochettino softened his knees, cocked his head to his side in order to hear. Jesús’ hand over mouth by Pochettino’s ear, as he started to whisper. 

“Yes, yes,” Pochettino nodded at his friend’s hushed tones. _Vale, vale_ , before he straightened up and stepped away from his friend and said, “Spontaneous. It is for you and your partner to do a dance or something that you’ve never done together before.”

“Huh, that’s new,” Christian smiled, his eyes drifting towards the ceiling, head and chin tipped upward. They’d just stomped in from training, ready for showers only to see sprigs of mistletoe _everywhere_. 

In a nod to the time of year, little touches of The Season popped up in various places. 

Small Christmas trees with silver baubles hanging from their branches, the familiar silhouette of the Cockrel in navy a nice contrast to the platinum finish. No red- _anywhere_ \- the Christmas colours being the club colours of navy, white, purple and yellow. 

December stomped towards them with cold leaden skies, and Christmas fixtures.

Vincent remembered asking the ex- Eredivisie contingent at the club about Christmas fixtures when he’d first arrived at Tottenham. He’d been excited to the point of almost being ill about it, caught off guard by everyone's full body shudder at the mention of them. “Too early to be talking about it,” Jan answered in clipped tones, and everyone else nodded in agreement. 

“They are great to watch,” Christian told him once. 

They’d been at Jan’s house, nursing their wounds after a vicious game of Monopoly, both bankrupt with fifty euros between them. 

The tips of Christian’s sand coloured hair and eyelashes catching the weak rays of the sun in the room, giving them the colour of dull gold. Aware that he might be staring too long, he dropped his gaze to Christian’s hands, now occupied with Monopoly pieces as they’d been both tasked to clear the game away. 

Toby had cleaned everyone out, leveraging rents on even the most modest of properties. “But the thing is- you can’t see beyond the next game,” Christian continued, packing the community cards together, banging them smartly on the table before putting them away. “You just... it’s all about recovery and the next match. Christmas is... a concept. You tend to snap at each other, and hate everyone.”

With the story as the backdrop, Vincent understood why Pochettino was going all the way out to do... this. 

Hugo and Moussa caught everyone off guard by giving a lusty rendition of _La Marseillaise_ when they’d realised they were under a sprig of mistletoe, with everyone hooting and whistling as the other French lads joined in. 

Eric and Harry did a new version of their handshake on the spot. 

The idea of the mistletoe seemed to help. People remembering to keep the spirit of the season around each other, despite the draining chill that stole into one’s bones that never left, no matter how you leaned against the radiators. The fatigue that only intensified as the length of the season started to wear, without the prospect of a break unless-

Unless you didn’t pl--- and he shut that thought off. 

It was surprisingly easy to do so, his gaze resting on Christian’s face, Christian taking in everything, his lips curving into an amused grin. “Someone might need to give an eye on Toby and Jan and Mousa,” he shook his head. “They’d never get anything done. What do you think, Vincent?”

“I--” Vincent stammered, shook his head. “I- I’m sure they’ll make it work.”

“Word is, Dele and Sonny are thinking of pranks to pull with mistletoe. _Oh God_ ,” Christian's voice tinged with horrified tones, as he probably thought about what mischief Dele and Sonny might be planning. “I mean,” he lowered his gaze from the ceiling and aiming it at Vincent. “What would you want to get under the mistletoe?”

After a short, electric silence between them, Vincent answered, “A trophy. Any trophy.”

***

“Does he know?”

Vincent smiled wryly at the question. It didn’t make sense for him to play dumb, not around Kevin, anyway. Kevin was a lot more observant than he let on. His eyes not leaving Christian as he watched him gamely dancing with Georges, Sonny and Dele under the bunch of mistletoe hanging from the roof beams above. Georges leading the group as he tripped them through Azonto. 

For all of Dele’s trash talk before started dancing, he wasn’t a good dancer at all. This caused Sonny to break character as he laughed throughout the dance. Apart from that though, Sonny was surprisingly good. With his permanent grin and smooth moves, he could have easily been a part of a K-pop group. 

Vincent and Kevin shared a small, round table at the periphery of the rec room, away from everyone else, playing a quiet game of Uno. Vincent had had the winning ways of it, almost getting down to one card, only for Kevin to throw a wild card into the mix, changing the colours from red to green. 

Now he was trapped with two cards and having to go back to the deck. 

_Please let it be green._

Probably, if Vincent hadn’t spent time sneaking looks in Christian’s direction, he might have won the game. Christian, with his striking profile, from his blonde feathery quiff to his straight-edged nose and that grin. Like everyone else, he was kitted out in Spurs’ training gear, but in short sleeves, his jacket shucked off and across the arm of the sofa where Toby, Jan and Moussa were seated. Christian kicking his feet out in front of him as if he were doing an Irish jig, which caused Toby, Jan and Moussa to roar into laughter, Jan tucked his head into Moussa’s shoulder, unable to stop his giggles. 

Toby put his fingers to his mouth and gave a long, sharp whistle. 

Christian wobbled, as if he’d been yanked out of his zone. He twisted his hips, his hands moving in the opposite direction. Even in this act, you saw his brain working, his body in harmony with thought, his dance improving step by step. His teeth worrying his chapped lower lip, his eyes slit in concentration. His arms muscular and lean, thatched by the gilded gold of his body hair. 

“Vince-”

“He’s... Danish,” Vincent said at last, his eyes drifting to the two cards in his hand. Green and red, when he needed blue. 

Kevin laughed. “I don’t think-” he started in careful English. 

“I have told him, yes,” Vincent cut in, eyes drifting back to Christian, “like I said, he’s... Danish.”

“Really.” Kevin frowned, not believing. 

“Really,” Vincent repeated. He had no need to lie. 

Earlier in the season, as they’d shared cups of hot chocolate at Christian’s house, sat across from each other, the circular blonde wood coloured surface of the table between them. It had been the end of a wretched day, when nothing had gone well for him in training, which was just another building block on top of nothing going well for him in the Cup match before. 

He had been distraught at the end of it, and Christian, being that type of guy, invited him to his home. 

A place where the mood was Scandinavian; open plan, bright and light colours in pleasing harmony. The mug of hot chocolate in his hands warming and comforting; to have the ear of a friend whose presence soothed like an old, soft, much-loved blanket made it even better. 

_I like you_ , Vincent admitted, as bald and bold as anything. Not really knowing where this feeling had come from. As in, why he had this space in his emotions for Christian in a way that he didn’t for Moussa, Toby or Jan. It might have been their similar ages, but no, that scratched out Harry and Eric too. Or the fact that Christian had been so helpful, but again so had most of the people here. 

It just made no sense. 

The silence stretched out between them, Vincent steeling himself for a sort of rejection, but Christian, being Christian, did something else. On the field and off it, when you gave him space to react, only for him to do an unexpected trick. 

He frowned for a minute, before he smiled, _I’d hope so,_ he’d answered, _we’re teammates_.

There hadn’t been anything else to say after that. 

Life and football sweeping them both up in its unstoppable currents. 

Games, travelling home and away. 

Watching the rest of the Champions’ League games on various TV channels, the self-reproach by members in the team dark to the point of suffocating. 

Even Christian -- as level-headed as the best of them-- had handed himself over to a mood, and Vincent trying his best to cheer him up. That was hard going because the facts were stark; the embarrassment of them dropping out of the group stages with minimum points. _Everything_ about their aborted Champions’ League adventure rankled, made Christian’s mood brittle and grim. 

This time, the Eredivisie contingent at Toby’s house. Save the two of them, the rest were outside, muttering bitterly amongst themselves, and they might have been sharing a case of beer. The others refused to stay in and watch the games for the other teams, but still had the TV set to the sports channel.

It had the air of... attending church only for teenagers to skip out at mass at the last minute to smoke in the churchyard. The rest of the congregation too distracted or lethargic to care. 

Christian and himself sharing a sofa in front of the TV, Real Madrid playing... it didn’t matter who. The rest of their matches were dead rubbers, and didn't change the scope of things.

“In football, there are two things you want,” Christian’s tones quiet, his thumb stroking the condensation beads on the surface of the glass bottled water he had in his hand. “To play in the World Cup, and Champions’ League.”

“Well,” Vincent said, bumping into his friend’s shoulder, “at least we got to the Champions’ League?”

“I don’t know where you’ve been for the past few weeks, Vincent,” Christian raised his gaze from his bottle as their eyes met, his voice stiff with hurt. “We crashed out.”

“I know. I’m-” the words on his tongue as dry as his throat, his eyes taking in Christian in the dim. The only source of light in the room the flickering pictures on the TV illuminating their surroundings, causing Vincent to drift into Christian’s space in order to see the expression on his face.

Close enough to smell the sweet chilli chicken on Christian’s breath, the shared meal everyone had eaten earlier. Close enough to see the stricken expression in his eyes, and for that, Vincent was sorry. Moved enough to palm Christian’s cheek, his thumb stroking along his cheekbone. 

“It’s fine,” Christian rolled his shoulders. “It’s --”

“It’s not, not really. We weren’t good enough, and ---” Vincent angled his head, pulling back the rest of his words, because everyone already knew. “But we’ll be better next season, _ja_? I mean, it can only get better.”

“Yeah,” Christian gave a small nod, his eyes huge and round in the dim light. His face the only thing in Vincent’s view, the match fading away, and this room - they could have been anywhere, and nothing would have mattered. “If we’re not dead yet, yeah?”

The sentiment straightforward with a dash of harsh realisation. Christian trying to smile, to make light of it, but his eyes told the story. 

All instinct as Vincent reached for Christian and gathered him close. The tip of his nose being tickled by the tips of his friend’s hair. The shudder of Christian’s breath against the space where the neck met clavicle. 

Sometimes, words were absolutely useless, and this was one of those times. 

On a sigh, Vincent burrowed in, made himself comfortable in Toby’s entirely too soft sofa, and stared listlessly at the TV in front of them. The announcers saying nothing new, about the strength of the teams and the state of play as the tables stood. 

All of his attention on listening to the measure of Christian’s breathing. His breaths moving from harsh and choppy to calm and even. Each drag of breath across his skin warming it, stirring an intimacy that he’d have never thought possible, and -

“ _Ja_ ,” Vincent reached for the bottle in Christian’s hand, somehow caught his fingers instead, wet and cold. “There’s always next season, we’ll do better.”

A statement as much as if it were a prayer. 

“Just-” Christian sighed, slipping into the sleepy-sounding Dutch that sounded natural to Vincent now, “I’ll be fine in a few minutes. I just need to--”

Wallow.

That was it, really. As much as you needed to have a touch of amnesia in this sport; to shrug off loses as soon as you could, to square up to the next challenge, sometimes, you just needed a good sulk. The practical lessons from defeat presented themselves with distance and emotion. Eventually. But now, everyone just needed a good sulk. 

“O.K.”

Somehow, that five minutes turned into them both falling asleep.

Later - not knowing how much later- his eyes fluttering open as someone turned off the TV, sending the room into a sharp, cliff edge of a silence. The only source of illumination creeping in along the edges of the room from the streetlights outside. Vincent blinked rapidly, his eyes adjusting to everything doused in tints of black and blue. Lifting his head, he knew who it was, clad in distressed jeans and the quirky Belgium jersey by Burrda they boasted about three seasons ago, with the oversized crown in a darker red hue against the red-orange of their kit, before Adidas became their kit manufacturer. 

“Toby,” he murmured, his arm automatically tightening around Christian. Despite the slight stabby feeling of pins and needles along his shoulder and arm, he didn’t want to disturb him, still a pleasant weighted heat against his chest. 

“Vincent,” Toby nodded, remote in hand, his other hand stroking his chin as if deep in thought. “It’s... late.”

“Hmm, yes,” Vincent agreed. “I didn’t mean to --”

Toby waved the words away, Vincent’s apology unimportant in the scheme of things. “We need to get this one into bed,” he gestured towards Christian, now half sprawled across Vincent. “He might look as if he’s ---nothing, but he’s heavy as an elephant. Also, sleeping like that won’t do his back any favours. Come, let's do this together, yes?”

After they’d poured Christian into one of the beds in one of the guest rooms, leaving him face down, and sprawling starfish style, Toby turned to Vincent.  
“It is late,” he pointed out, and it was. A bit past twelve a.m. “You can stay if you want to,” Toby continued, his voice polite, but not necessarily friendly. “Before leaving in the morning.”

“No,” Vincent shook his head, “I will be more comfortable in my own bed, thank you.”

Not that he didn’t like Toby, but they didn’t have the same ease around each other one on one versus say when they were around everyone else. He also got the feeling that Toby felt the same way about him; this in addition to a wary distance, with a bit of distrust, and he never understood why. 

After another look at Christian, taking in his features soft and relaxed with sleep, Vincent tore his gaze away, meeting Toby’s eyes. 

“Good night,” he said after a few seconds. “I’ll see myself out.”

As soon as he let himself into his car, Vincent rested his head against the steering wheel, closing his eyes against the sounds in the quiet community in this part of the world, the sounds of traffic on the road distant as the moon. 

_Oh, fuck_ Vincent cursed at himself, his body boneless in the car seat, scrubbing at his face with his hands. This complication he didn’t need at all. Not when he already had problems with Pochettino, getting to grips with the league, the team training and everything else. 

Not Christian too. 

“He’s... Danish,” Vincent repeated, as he came back into the present, his answer lost in the howls of delight at the end. Dele and Sonny taking their bows, and even with that between them, it was a competition, to see who could do the one with the most flourish. 

Christian smiling and half waving, already backing away. He’d held his own, if not slightly more than that, and satisfied, allowed himself to shrink into the margins. To slot into somewhere else seamlessly. Something similar to how he operated in the field of play. Kept everyone ticking, made everything better, and then just shifted into neutral, reading the game for another action.

***

**December 23, 2016**

Strangely, the Christmas fixtures offered up free days for Tottenham. A few precious days around Christmas itself. Pochettino gave everyone permission to scatter, as long as they returned to England by Boxing Day. “No matter what,” Pochettino wagged his finger at everyone with emphasis. “If you have to charter a flight, or -- catch a fishing boat. You need to be back by this date, yes?”

“Wow,” Mousa grinned, shooting a wink and a thumbs up in Vincent’s direction as everyone filed out of the tactics training room after Pochettino’s announcement. “You must be good luck,” he said, and Vincent tried not to feel resentful due to his sputtering form and lack of playing time, no matter how hard he grafted, he felt as if he’d been cursed. 

“I--” Vincent began, but after a few months in England, he’d learnt how to modify his answers, to be more polite, even around people who were raised similarly to him in outlook. Sometimes, it didn’t help to say the obvious, and he knew enough about the Christmas fixtures to realise how rare and beautiful this opportunity was for everyone. To celebrate Christmas _physically in their homelands_ , to see family and friends beyond the circle of London and its outskirts. 

Swallowing his anger he did one better, wished everyone a Happy Christmas. Tugging his phone from his pocket, he booked his flight home on the spot.

***

**December 26, 2016**

“How was your Christmas?”

This was Kevin, after they found themselves back from their micro-break. Vincent had spent his holidays tracking his teammates’ activities on their personal social media accounts as a distraction, as well as watching the matches in the English top and second tier. Both of them in the changing room, after already grabbing their kit from the kitman. 

It felt odd, being back, Vincent noted, tugging on a pair of joggers because it felt too cold to be wearing shorts to training just now. Tottenham feeling like it should fit but --it didn't, and he didn't know why.

“I made myself useful,” Vincent answered, dragging his cobalt and sky blue training shirt over his head. “And yours?”

“It was fantastic,” Kevin smiled, looking up from the low bench he was seated on, pulling his socks up to his calf. “It was nice seeing everybody again. And Sonny enjoyed it too.”

“Ah,” Vincent nodded knowingly, ready to push this into a bit of teasing. 

“Yeah,” Kevin nodded in response. “It would be too far for Sonny to fly to South Korea, no? So he stayed with me.”

You couldn’t tease Kevin for doing that, for looking out for a friend. Damn it. “That’s decent.”

Kevin shook his head, waving the comment off with ease. “Sonny would have done the same for me, I’m sure. So,” he changed the subject. “Do you think we’ll see the pitch anytime soon. Christmas fixtures do call for rotation, even with Pochettino, yes ?”

Vincent exhaled. “I don’t know.”

“And ... Christian?” Kevin murmured, the sympathy in his features and voice enough of a balm for Vincent not to feel offended - or worse- pitied. 

Again, Vincent breathed out through his lips, a noise along the lines of _Pfft_. Unable to answer, he shook his head. Kevin didn’t say a word, just threw an arm around his shoulders, giving Vincent an encouraging squeeze, their heads close together as they walked out of the dressing room together towards the training pitch.

***

**December 28, 2016**

“Vincent,” Christian nodded, doing that characteristic half distracted grin, his gaze swinging up to the spring of mistletoe in the doorway above their heads, and back to him. Somehow, they ended up here. In the doorway of the rec room, alone. “This is--” and Christian’s grin widened. “Weird. We’ve never ended up here before.”

“Yeah,” Vincent agreed, “the Christmas fixtures are just as bad as you said they were."

Christian’s head tilted, his smile fading, features scrunched in confusion at the non-sequitur. A vertical line standing in the middle of drawn sandy eyebrows, his eyes a dark blue under light lashes.

“Ah,” Christian gave a brisk nod, his index and middle fingers stroking his beard. He’d let it grow, sand coloured and full, long enough for it to cover his chin and jaw. “Yeah, it’s mad, _innit_ ? It’s all a crush, like I've said before. It’s... something.”

“Yeah,” Vincent agreed. He’d tasted some action in the last two matches, but always in the embers of the game. The training sessions at the end of the matches on the field of play, when he had only been on the field for nine minutes (if that) instead of ninety didn’t count. He didn’t get into that, because well, the situation was what it was. 

Christian would be all sympathy and apologies when none of this wasn't his fault. 

He’d done more than he’d needed to as a teammate- and to be honest- had been a good friend in the ways that counted. So, Vincent did the next best thing and followed Christian’s lead. “It’s something.”

He made to turn away, only to freeze when Christian touched his arm. 

In the white haze of emotion and _everything_ , his mind raced with questions. _Did Christian even know? What was he asking? I thought I---_

“Hey, Vincent, _is alles goed met je?_ ”

The question in Dutch akin to a splash of cold water in his face, shocking him into the moment, and grounding him at the same time.

“ _Ja_ ,” Vincent exhaled on a breath, “ _het mij gaat het goed_.” He even recovered enough to joke, “I've spent so much time avoiding this thing, now that I’m here, I don’t know what to do.”

“You’ve been lucky, yes, until no--”

“Hey, you lot,” Dele greeted, as he walked down the passage and stopped by the doorway were they stood with Sonny in tow. Both clad in team gear like the everyone else who used the rest of the building. “Compliments of the season,” he greeted politely, before turning to Sonny and asking, “that’s what people say, right?”

“I--” Sonny frowned, puzzled. “English is my third language. You should know, Dele. You only speak one.”

Dele rolled his eyes, showing in a move what he thought about _that_. Vincent had to admire Dele’s unselfconscious attitude to most things. What he didn’t know, he didn’t pretend to know, and he refused to be cowed by that fact. “Christian would know, his English is brilliant.”

“It sounds... _legit_ ,” Christian stressed the word, “are we in your way, lads?”

"No,” Dele shook his head. “We’re looking for Tripps, thought he’d be hiding out here, but ---”

“No joy,” Christian raised his eyebrows, “sorry.”

“‘s OK. If you see him, don’t tell him that we’ve asked after him, yeah?”

Vincent opened his mouth to object, only to catch Christian’s eye and his subtle head shake. 

Dele and Sonny had the air of planning a _prank_. Since Pochettino had ideas about where phones weren’t allowed to be used ( hall passageways and in certain rooms) they had to do things the old-fashioned way, like asking each other where their teammates were. 

“We won’t,” Christian slipped his hands into his pockets, shooting Dele a critical yet indulgent look like an uncle would at a mischievous nephew. “But don’t be too mean to him, okay? He’s the only backup RB we have.”

“Later, Chris,” Dele touched index and middle fingers to his temple, before flicking them away, like an entirely too casual salute. “Vince.”

“Dele. Sonny.”

As soon as their teammates moved off, their footsteps receding into the distance, Vincent watching Dele and Sonny as they stopped in the passage, doing one of their handshakes. Starting with a modest fist bump, before riffing through some moves seemingly ripped from anime fight scenes, ending on a soft shuffle, and a brief hug, before they burst out laughing, and ran down the halls.

“Is that what you wish to do?”

“Huh?”

“Mistletoe?” Christian pointed at the spring above them. “The thing? Or... we don’t have to do it, if you don’t want to.” He gave a shrug of his shoulders. “It’ll soon be New Year’s anyway. We can just pretend that we did, and Poch wouldn’t need to know."

“No,” Vincent shook his head, running his hand through his hair. “It’s team building, right? And...” he worried his lower lip with his teeth, not wanting to let a shared moment slip by if he could help it. “Like you said, we haven’t done one together.”

“ _So_...” Christian shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his grin open, boyish. “What do you want to do?”

 _To play more first-team football, to share the field with you_ Vincent thought, his eyes on Christian’s face. They were about the same height, which made it comfortable.

“I---” Vincent started, before he gave up, his hands doing a vague gesture. “I don’t know.”

“We could ... _Ajax hup rood witte schare--_ ” Christian began. 

“Just. _No_ ,” Vincent cut in, slicing the air with his open palm. “I’ll never _ever_ be far enough from the Eredivisie to even think about singing that song.”

“ _Geen club die ons kan evenaren rood en wit wordt kampioen_ "

“I’m leaving,” Vincent held up a hand, as he pulled away to go, only for Christian to break off into laughter, resting his arm on Vincent’s forearm. 

“I’m sorry,” Christian apologised, his breath gusting across Vincent’s face, like a zephyr. “That was mean.”

“Sorry enough to sing _Come on Super AZ_?”

Christian’s face grew serious, his eyes slitting into thought, as he really looked at Vincent, the silence between them stretching into something deep and profound. Although _technically_ , Feyenoord might have been his first team, he had his reasons nailing the AZ colours to his mast. 

“Do you know the words to _Come on Super AZ_ ?” Christian asked after a while. 

“Yeah,” Vincent answered, his heart full of emotions he know knew, but still too swamped with the enormity of them to get to grips with. His eyes never leaving Christian’s face, feeling his heart _sigh_ in response to the changing emotion flitting across his features, moving from thoughtfulness to mirth.

“Great,” Christian grinned, his eyes lit with good humour. “I’m so glad you know the words...Because I will never, _ever_ sing the words to _Come on Super AZ_.”

“You ...” Vincent searched for the appropriate English insult. Found it. “ _Tosser._ ”

“Wait, wait,” Christian raised a hand, his index finger piercing the air, “I know a song we can sing. Vincent--” he drawled, throwing an arm around his neck, unknowingly lassoing Vincent’s heart. “You’ll like it, I promise. And--” he finished, resting his palm against Vincent’s chest, their gazes locked. “It’s strangely appropriate for this time of year.”

To tell the truth, if Christian had started singing that bloody Ajax song right at this moment, Vincent would have been weak enough to just... hum, team allegiances be damned (but he’d have done penance the next day). 

However, Christian was true to his word.

He didn’t steer Vincent wrong, singing the first two lines of _Wij houden van Oranje_ , along the tune to _Auld Lang Syne_ , motioning for Vincent to join in.

Vincent knew the song, grew up singing it for parades, in the heady years of World Cups and Euros. Memories hitting him from every angle, like the time he feared he couldn’t see the first time he’d first been called to _Oranje_. Hearing the masses singing _Wij houden van Oranje_ for the team ( _for him_ ). Scrubbing at his face so that he could see the field in front of him, the swathes of orange flags and fabric seething and whirling around the stadium like a sea of fire. A song that had the tapestry of memories, each string capable of pulling on one or all emotions, but still complicated and sure enough to keep the integrity of the picture.

It wasn’t a hardship to join in, the words as familiar as his ABCs and times tables. The feelings that tugged at his heart enough to overcome whatever self-consciousness he might have felt, because Christian was giving it a good go. When they got to the end, the part where you repeated the chorus twice, Vincent’s heart and eyes grew full, his voice cracking and dissolving into nothing. Christian’s voice the stronger as Vincent’s throat closed from emotion, and he carried them both home. 

“It’s too late to say _Happy Christmas_ , like they say over here,” Christian finished, in the slurred Dutch that sounded as natural as breathing to his ears now. “So... let’s just say, _succes_ for the New Year when it comes.”

“ _Succes_ ,” Vincent finished, pressing his hand against Christian’s, both hands now against his chest. After a few moments, when he was sure that his voice wouldn’t betray him, he sighed, and it was filled with feeling. “Thanks.”

Christian smiled, giving Vincent’s chest one last pat before he dragged his hand away, leaving Vincent’s palm splayed against his own heart, before he too dropped his hand. “Mistletoe, right? Team bonding.”

_Oh. Right._

Vincent shook his head, as if waking from the softness of a dream.

“I have to go now,” Christian stepped away, leaving a hollowness that Vincent hadn’t known before. “I promised Jan, Mousa and Toby I’d stop by,” he rolled his eyes with fond exasperation. “They have a new game they want to try out."

“Settlers of Catan? Dungeons and Dragons?”

“No,” Christian shook his head, “ _Cards Against Humanity_. Do you want to come with?”

“No,” Vincent waved it off, and realising that in England, the word alone sounded quite rude, and so, he tried to modify it. “I have things to do,” which came across as even _worse_. Not that he had things to do, but he couldn't trust himself to be around Christian, not now, and Toby's gaze would be entirely too knowing.

“I understand,” Christian nodded, “if you get through doing what you need to do--”

“I’ll call, promise.”

“Night, Vincent.”

“Christian.”

One last smile from Christian before he turned on his heel and walked down the hall, turned left and disappeared. Vincent sagged against the doorway frame, hitting his head on the frame as he turned his face towards the mistletoe. The tips of its leaves now fading slightly, the creamy white of its fruit slightly discoloured.

Vincent stared at it for a long time. 

The End. 

**Author's Note:**

>   * The shirt Toby is wearing in this fic is [this one](http://www.footballshirtculture.com/14/15-kits/belgium-world-cup-2014-burrda-home-football-kit.html)
>   * The songs that Christian and Vincent speak about are songs for [Ajax](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f05QyvR1wMQ), [AZ Alkmaar](https://www.fanchants.com/football-songs/az-alkmaar-chants/az-chant-1/) (Dutch teams) and [Wij houden van Oranje](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CwLsYHzwYCA) which is sung to the tune of [Auld Lang Syne ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=to1xT93IlUI)
>   * One day, I'll have an awesome title, today is not that day 
>   * Happy Christmas, Itsadrizzit, if you're about that life
> 


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Under the Mistletoe [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13251096) by [ItsADrizzit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit/pseuds/ItsADrizzit)




End file.
